Hide the Keys to the Gun Case

I’m just a girl who doesn’t know who she is
Because the mind I once had, suddenly became his.

For all I really know, I might not even exist.
That’s one of the reason I sometimes cut my wrist.

If I wake up tomorrow and I don’t know who I am,
Will anyone tell me if they give a damn?

Maybe some friendly person will take pity on my soul,
And tell me all the things that will make my mind whole.

*********************
The truth is they will just let me parade around like a delusional person trying to find something I lost a long time ago.
*********************

Light Up a Smoke and Stick Around for Awhile

Today my thoughts are running around in all the wrong directions. I tossed and turned for almost 6 hours of sleep before I couldn’t stand laying in bed for another minute because of the pain in my knees. I started going to psychical therapy last week to learn new exercises to help strengthen the muscles around my knees, so I can prepare for surgery in a few more months down the line. I’m told I have to have total knee replacements if I ever want to walk without pain again. Not sure if I want to go through all that. Still, the therapy seems to be helping with some of the relentless pain.

To help take my mind away from the unbending pain, I began pondering things like, ‘What would happen if I ....” Soon the thoughts turned intrusive and bore deep into my recesses of my mind, and hung around like open sore that you keep picking at. Here is a few things my mind explored today.


I wonder what would happen if I ...

If I... Walked down a road with heavy traffic rushing by at 65mph, and I ‘stumbled’ in front of the passing cars, would the firemen come to wash away all the blood?

If I ... Found the tallest building in Tulsa and went to the roof to jump off, would anyone care enough to stop me?

If I... Picked up my hammer and smashed my computer into a thousand pieces, then threw it out into the street, would other people understand?

If I ... I saw someone wearing a bullet proof vest, could I aim for their head or crotch and still be able to kill them?

If I ...walked into the store and got an overwhelming urge to smash all the eggs on the floor, would I have to clean it up?

If I ... Swam down into the deepest water, could I make it back to the top in time?

If I... Took a baseball bat to the police station and just went crazy breaking all the windows in their new patrol cars, would I kick them in the nuts when they try to arrest me?

If I ... Burned something, could it be put back together?

If I... Interrupted Obama during one of his speeches, would I be tasered?

If I ... Stab myself, will I survive?

If I ... Stuck my hand in the garbage disposal, would it hurt?

If I ... Used an assault rifle, how many could I kill before someone stopped me?

If I ... Closed my eyes while driving, and pushed the gas pedal down a little harder, would I wreck?

If I ... Jump off a tall building, would that end the fear of me falling?

If I... Carry out one of these urges, will I find myself levitating with a extreme mood lift and accompanying euphoria?

Quote:
Others may think you are crazy,
but it is the genius inside you that is giving you those thoughts.
Let your crazy thoughts come and success will follow.

Other things I keep thinking about...

I keep thinking, “If I didn’t love them... I would put them out of their misery.”

As I stood behind a man at Wal-Mart, I thought about picking up one of the steak knives in my shopping cart and plunging it into the middle of his back because I felt he was looking at a little girl in the wrong way.

I saw a highway patrolman and couldn’t stop myself from following him into Q-trip, just so I could think about how it would be to take his life with my bare hands.


Acknowledging the darker, evil part of my human psyche... It exist within us all.

Being aware of the evil within allows me to control it, rather than merely ignoring it and letting it fester through my being to the point where it can overwhelm me when I loose control.

Once you get right deep down into the core of a persons being, we're all evil, malignant assholes who probably deserve to die.

Just how else could humanity come to sit at the top of the global food chain? Only by being the smartest, toughest, most bloodthirsty motherfuckers on this rock.

Can I control these intrusive thoughts?
Can I trust my own mind not to do something stupid?
One thing is that I am usually too damn busy or lazy to act on them, but of course if I get a day when I’m not tired, or busy... Then the world better watch out.

I’ll be alright, as long as the breaks don’t fail.

*************************
My court is tomorrow. I was hoping I could come up with enough money to pay the damn ticket before having to appear, but it looks like I'll have to make payment arraignments. Damn I hate fucking court! Too much stress. I don't do good with stress. Guess, I'll just have to come prepared.

To Kill Again

I was with him longer than any man I've ever been with, so I suppose he had to die. He wasn't the most talented man in the world, matter of fact all he could do was work a eight hour shift, and then come home and lay down. Never able to do any of the manly things that I thought a man should be able to do. Like being able to change the oil on the car, fix the leaky sink, repair the carpet, or even doing little chores around the house. He didn’t do anything of these things. If it was to be done, I had to do it all.

I have days where all I want to do is take my life, just to save myself from all this pain and misery. I yearn for a sense of purpose that will define my place in this world. But I yearn for too much. Hope and expectation cloud the mind before delivering bitter disappointment. It is a lesson I have been taught time and again. It is a lesson I keep having to re-learn.

I remember when I first met him. He was thick, but in shape with a nice muscle tone underneath, but I hated the fact that he acted like he knew it all. Still, it was easy to take advantage of him. All I had to do was show him the pussy and he would give me anything I wanted or desired.

I never really seemed to bond well with others when growing up, I mostly prefered to be alone. I would spend hours alone, thinking about ways to inflict a slow death on some small creature I had caught. At 12, I broke down, and told my father that I could kill somebody and not feel bad, he beat me with a belt and sent me on my way. Taught me to keep my mouth shut.

Now here I sit, past 40 years old in my own house, hidden deep in the woods, far from prying eyes, with another fresh corpse sitting next to me. I guess it was partly my fathers fault. Maybe if he hadn’t sexually, physically, or mentally abuse me throughout my life, my life might have went a different direction. Maybe it’s the voices that I hear in my head, that makes me commit these crimes. Or it might be the thrill, the adrenaline rush, the sexual turn-on, or the high that I get from killing. Whatever it is...I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop.

Some people might think that I’m sick, a freak, a inhuman creature, or insane, but I don't. I don't feel that it's a normal thing, but I feel completely numb about what is happening. Mostly I enjoy the sense of power that comes from terrifying victims, and confusing the police. I always wanted to prove to myself that I was capable to taking another persons life, but only one thing kept me from carrying out this nasty deed for years when I was young, I didn't want to be locked up for the rest of my life, rotting away in some stinking jail cell. Whether I admit it or not, I do value freedom, but I have become smarter.

I wouldn't do anything really sick, like fuck a dead body, but the thought is still there. I thought about it a lot when I was little, and afterwards I would lay in bed and secretly masturbate. Maybe I am sick, maybe I‘m just willing to admit to my heinous thoughts. I'd like to believe that I'm like a lot of other people, but that's only a fantasy. I’ve even been told that I’m as normal as the girl next door, but the truth is ..... Well, no one knows the real me.

Everybody has the power in themselves to kill another. I remember sitting alone in the big barn behind our house when I was young, with a black cat in my arms, thinking I could take its head and crush it with one quick show of strength. Or I could throw it on the ground with all my might and stomp it to death. I suppose talking about killing an animal is wrong, but I can’t help thinking about the feeling of warm blood splashed across my skin.

Things weren't easy for us when I was growing up. We weren't rich, so most of the time I found myself going without, while others would be proudly showing off their trinkets, I stood alone in the background. We grew food in the garden in the summertime, and hunted down and killed any other food we might need to survive. There wasn’t much, but at least we had a roof over our head, (that leaked when it rained), and food to eat every night (even if it was the same food two nights or more in a row).

At 17, I was out on my own. I bought a car, got an apartment, and supported myself in my own way. I suppose others would feel a sense of accomplishment in having their own apartment, I didn't actually care. I never needed much space to live in, just a small kitchen, one bathroom, two bedrooms; one room to sleep in, and another to put my collection of souvenirs. I lived like this for years.

Then he came along. Sex with him was great. I couldn’t seem to get enough of what he was offering. He would hold doors open for me, enjoyed going out to a fancy restaurant, or just spending a quiet evening at home entertaining me. Eventually he moved in with me, and we then we moved to a bigger place. Things changed. I changed.

It's been said that people don't care anymore, but I tried. People just never gave me the same respect that I was giving. Were they too dumb to understand? So fucking stupid that they didn’t understand that when you treat people like dogs, eventually they become the meanest dog you’ve ever come across.

Sometimes, I don’t mind being treated like trash, but at times I want to be treated like princess.

Now, I enjoy lurking in the shadows, watching other people, madly laughing to myself, making people wonder what I’m going to do next. I get off on the pure joy of telling someone something so bizarre that it fucks with their mind.

I love being around certain people. But what I love more, is when the people like being with me. I was a social recluse for quite some time, now I can never get enough of people. Maybe this is what drove me to do what I did. Maybe not. Society is warped, I see it all the time, but I can't blame society for all my actions or re-actions.

When I'm tired, I can be very disrespectful. "Fuck off," is mild for me. Don't get me going, because once I start, I'm not going to stop until something really bad happens.

They never understand my moods. MOODS. What a strong word, more powerful than most. Perhaps it's the fact that I have different personalities at times, so there is always a different reason for what I do. Hell, I'm still trying to figure that one out myself.

I hate it when he yells and threatens my life, telling me I worthless and good for nothing. I don’t know how many times I’ve told him to leave, but he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stand there like a fool and argue. I face reality and realize I can find another person just like him. He just makes me so crazy that all I can think about is killing him, and burying his body in a deep hole in the backyard.

Sometimes I get in this weird mood where all I want to do is listen to sad, dreary and depressing songs. Not happy songs. He hates this, and only wants to listen to his favorite type of music, calling my music nothing but crap, and giving me this look of hatred when he turns mine off and turns his on.

You know the letter 'y' in the word 'happy' makes the word look happy. Happ. That looks better. Like someone was trying to say 'happy' and their throat was slit in the process.

I could easily break someone’s bones, because the sound of the snapping bones drive me over the edge and sends me into a frenzy of inflicting pain. I want to make them curl up in the corner, and beg for their life.

I could easily cut a person. Blood doesn't bother me like it does some people. I've sat for hours, putting scars on my legs, arms, and stomach with one of the many blades that I own. I suppose that I'm rambling again, but I'll be strong and not apologize for it, because then I'd be weak.

He yelled at me, and read me like a book. He saw right through my moods. Saw the inner me. I don’t like that. I don’t want people to know me like that. We’ve been together to long.

What is the problem? You really want to know? I just wanted him to shut up, and stop telling me what I did wrong, over and over again until I want to throw up. I‘m not a dumb ass, I know I fucked up.

Then later, when I’m still mad, I didn’t want him to make believe everything is okay, and then tie me down to the bed and fuck me with all his strength...well maybe that was okay. I just wanted a word or two about how ‘the house looks nice’, or ‘dinner was good’, ‘your hair looks nice’, ‘don’t worry, I’ll take care of things’, that’s what I want him to say at least once.

The gun barely made a sound when it went off. I had put on the latex gloves, and wrapped a pillow fully around the gun before I placed it against his left temple. I was expecting a much louder noise, and at first I worried that it didn‘t really go off, and he would wake up shouting at me to leave him the fuck alone. But then I saw the blood beginning to pour from his mouth and quickly soaking into the sheets. I knew he was dead.

The blood meant something. It meant it was over. I didn’t have to deal with the way he treated me, ever again. I could move on and find someone new, someone better, someone I wouldn’t want to kill.

It feels good to scream, loudly. I felt like a God, standing in my big house waving the gun around in the air. Maybe I went back to some primal instincts of kill or be killed. I took the first step. There are no tears. I feel nothing.

So, now I sit here writing this, and I’m beginning to realize what I’ve done to him. He was my life for the past 20 years, and I've just altered that way of life forever. His death will mean my freedom again if anyone finds his body. But he has no family, no close friends, he won‘t be missed for a very long time. It will be time enough for me to move on, to begin again what I started so many years ago. I can’t let anybody find out. It has brought back all the old memories of when I killed years ago. Once again I am free to go out and freely kill and fuck at will. Some people might not understand this, but it is a part of me.

After I buried his body in a deep hole in the backyard, I took a long hot shower, blow-dried and straightened my hair, and now I'm deciding how to finish this story.

If a murderer moved next door, would you know it just by looking at them? Could you tell from your interactions with a person, that they were capable of committing unspeakable acts against other human beings? Could someone you love and have regular contact with, be a serial killer without you suspecting a thing?

The room he was in, now smells different. It's not the usual smell of his body odor, or his cologne that I bought for him last year at Christmas. It smells strange, and I feel like I don’t belong here any more. I cut up the mattress and buried most of it with him, but the smell of dead blood lingers, like dust in the air after a storm.

A gallon of bleach and a bottle of pine-sol should do the trick. I like to be clean, I hate it when things are dirty. Everything has to have its own proper place, and it is a must that things smell nice. Smell is very important to a woman. But they wouldn't listen! I'd like to take their words and shove them down their throats.

I figure people kill themselves because they feel they have nothing to live for. Nothing. Their life was wasted early, and that affects them later. So, they sit in one place, and look at all the dirt and filth around them, never finding happiness until the day they die. Nobody cares for them, and they don’t care for anybody. That's the reason. Maybe. I know how they feel now. I know, I understand.

My life is wasted, but his death fixed that.

I kissed him lightly on the forehead before I dumped his body in the hole. It sent goose-bumps through me, and made me wonder if I had done the wrong thing. Was it time to begin my plan? It felt like the first time all over again. The adrenaline rush like I got from my first kill was back. I had quit so many years ago because I was no longer getting the thrill that I had received the first time I took a life.

Society is going to hate me as much as I hate them. But I’m going to do it anyway, and not anybody is going to know the truth. Even if there was somebody who KNEW how I was feeling, what I'm thinking, and what I did, I would still deny it. It's like a disease, and it's not stoppable. Afterwards, I will feel bad, but right now, I don't care anymore. I feel alive, like Dr Frankenstein’s monster.

Who gives a fuck anyway? I should die. I am a sinner, and no one can save me now. What I’ve done is sick, disgusting, immoral, and I should die for my crimes. If somebody else had done the same thing, I would not hesitate to kill them. But, I am me, and so I am above the laws? No, I should die, and die I will by the hands of another...someday. That almost sounds poetic. I always wanted to be a poet, or a writer, but I don’t have the talent. I could have, but people are always telling me how much better they are than me, and how I'll never be anybody. People with more talent, more ideas, more feelings...normal people. People I don’t like. People that need to die.

This next weekend might be a good time to start this planned thought. Planning is important part... I don't want to make a mistake. Maybe I'll wait until my court date and explode in a violent frenzy, and not stop until I take my last breath.

If there is a hell, then surely I'll be there,

laying in my bed of hot coals, staring aimlessly at the ceiling,

unable to sleep.

Warning Adult Material...


The following story is a purely fictional account. Any relationship to any real person living or dead is absolutely coincidental. The narrative deals with torture and slaughter of innocent human beings. The author in no way condones or promotes such acts. This is the world of fantasy and fiction where the hidden corners of the psyche may be explored. The author believes that exploring such subject matter in this realm keeps it from ever needing to be explored, and much less fulfilled, in real life. There is violence in all of us. Otherwise there would be no crime, no war, no destruction. We must acknowledge the beast inside of us if we are to tame it. To ignore it and repress it is to invoke its appearance in our midst.

************************

The sun beaming through a crack in the foil that covered a window finally woke me from my deep sleep. The smell of old blood and dirt filled the air around me. When I looked down at my body I could see that I was covered with blood and mud.

At first my mind was blank and then I remember a man screaming for his life, as I tortured and played with his body without his permission. Then I began to smile thinking about how I had killed him, then ate a piece of his flesh fried in a cast iron skillet.

Vague dreamlike images came and went. I remember leaning down to drink at a steam filled with clear running water, as a piece of his guts rolled down my chest and splashed in the bubbling stream. I remembered earlier in the evening when I saw the site of a suburban neighborhood on the edge of the forest floating in the dark as I moved in closer to watch my target.

I must have wandered around in the forest behind his place for most of the night afterwards. I vaguely remember crawling up out of the tall grass towards the shed behind my place. There I fell asleep just like an animal on the floor, reeking of blood and sweat. I was exhausted from my long hours of sexual butchery.

Suddenly I remembered where I had left the remaining part of his body. I knew I would have to go back and dispose of the remaining pieces of his body, along with his badge and uniform. I just hoped no one would spot him and call the police before I could get there. When I’m in that state of mind, I think I’m above the law, but once I return to a more normal state of mind, survival and evasion mode kicks in.

I stood and peeked out through a hole that I had torn in the foil, and saw through a kitchen window across the road, another officer moving around in shorts and a tee-shirt. His body looked fine and chiseled, the perfect specimen to play with. I could see the driveway on the side of his house, and a SUV along with his patrol car was parked there.

The shed I was in was only about 20 yards from the house, and from the window I could hear other voices in the house. A woman moved past the window and then walked outside, got into the SUV and drove away, as the officer stood there waving, watching her leave.

I was already beginning to get worked up as I watched him walk back into the house. He had short cut dark hair, around 6 foot tall, with a well defined body shape. He looked intelligent, yet youthful, though he was probably in his 30’s.

I was about to make a move towards him, when I saw the paperboy coming down the street. He seemed to staring right in my direction, so I backed up into the sheds shadow as my bare feet shuffled against the dirt floor. When I finally managed to look again, he was gone completely out of site. I knew I was going to have to move fast if I was going to get what I wanted and desired.

By the doorway inside the shed, I saw a small junior sized baseball bat. It was old and cracked but when I picked it up I knew it would do. Slowly, cautiously I stepped out of the shed, with my weapon in hand, and moved towards the house. I could feel the damp morning grass under my feet, as I inched my way towards the house. The nearest house was over a block away, and was hidden behind a wall of trees. I realized no one would be able to see me sneak across the yard.

I boldly moved towards the door and put my free hand on the knob and tested it. It was unlocked. Silently grinning, I slid inside and closed the door behind me. The clock in the kitchen showed it was 6:30 am as I walked with the bat across the dark black tiled floor.

He must have heard me make a noise, and returned to the kitchen to see me standing there covered in dried caked on blood, with a old wooden bat in the hand. The officer froze for a brief minute, which was enough time for me to swing the weapon against his head. He went flying sideways into a pantry door, making a choked grunt, spinning down to the floor his body went limp. I then slammed it into him again, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

He laid there on the tiled floor, almost total lifeless, but still able to feel my touch across his body. I ran my hands across his chest, and then down between his thighs, feeling his nice firm cock. He came to enough to hit me in the nose with one hard blow, causing blood to trickled down from my right nostril.

“Shit yeah!” I said aloud. “This is gonna be fuckin’ great!” I then slammed him once more in the head, and then continued my assault against the rest of his body. I then drug, and pulled him down a hallway into a master bedroom and shoved him onto the bed. As he began to resist again I swung the bat at his legs, and then as I dropped the bat I put both my hands around his neck and told him to stop resisting.

“Listen up motherfucker, I’m going to stick this bat up your ass if you don’t lay there and do as you are told. Do you understand me?”

“Yah- yes,” he managed to get out. I enjoyed the hopeless look in his face, as he realized he couldn’t do anything about what was going to happen to him. I got on the bed with him and using his cuffs I cuffed each hand to a bed rail. A wave of dark meanness swept over me.

I leaned down and sunk my teeth into his chest, near his left nipple. He tasted so fresh and clean. I could smell where he had obviously taken a shower before I had arrived. Blood trickled down from the wound to his head, and I reached up to wipe some off his freshly shaven face. This was going to be fucking sweet.

I knew I didn’t have a whole lot of time before someone showed up or one of his buddies on the force would stop by, so my plans had to be quick. I moved quickly before my victim could recover consciousness. I remembered the tools in the shed and went outside to get some of them.

In the corner of the shed there were several wooden dowels of varying sizes and thickness, along with some rope and a few other items. Enough things to torture him for a short period of time that I had.

I took the things back inside and tied the still half unconscious officer legs down spread eagle on the bed. I used a sharp knife from the kitchen and cut away what little clothing he had on, and then I placed a large piece of duct tape over his mouth. I was becoming so turned on by the sight of him laying there completely helpless.

By the time I finished securing him down, he was finally coming around, moaning and tugging at the cuffs that held him tight. I could see a large purplish, black bump on the side of his head and another one where I had hit him the second time.

When he opened his eyes I sat on his chest and whispered, “Good morning Officer Smith. Welcome to the last day of your fucking life.”

He moaned and grimaced with pain, shaking his head back and forth. I looked around on the walls and saw him in uniform excepting his diploma from police training, and a picture of him being given an award for outstanding performance in the line of duty. This stuck me as humorous as I didn’t see that side of him, I only saw the monster that once arrested me and then had beaten the hell out of me because I kept cussing at him over a traffic ticket. It was time for a little revenge. A little lesson in how to treat a civilian.

The officer now fully awake, stared at me with a look of terror in his eyes. “Police officer of the year. I’m impressed.”

“Fuck you bitch!” he mumbled through the duct tape.

“Ahhh, now don’t talk you motherfucker. It’s useless and a waste of energy. You’re gagged, and nothing you say is gonna make the least bit of fucking difference to me today. I’m going to torture you and maybe for a little fun I might rape you. When its all over I‘m going to kill you.”

This seemed to piss him off even more and he began trying to struggle free from his confinement.

“Well, maybe one of your buddies will show up on time, or you figure out a way to help me with my ‘problems’. Maybe things will turn out differently. Who knows, maybe you’re the right person to help me figure out why I do these kinds of crazy things.”

He stop struggling long enough to look up at me. His eyes roamed over my body, scanning it, looking for something he could use to his advantage.

I scanned over his naked lightly tanned body. Feeling the warm touch of his skin under the touch of my hands, made my insides tingle, and I felt that I wanted his cock deep inside my cunt. I softly smiled down at him, enjoying the effect that my grinding back and forth across his cock was doing to him.

“If you perform well for me, I might let you live.” I thought to myself if he believed that then he wasn’t as smart as his awards led everyone to believe. “You know I once had a chance to become somebody that was a productive member of society, but then that was taken away by one of your brothers in blue. If only I hadn’t taken a wrong road late one night, none of this would have happened. What a fucking waste.”

I sat heavily on his chest, and twisted his nipples in my hands as hard as I could. I moved in closer and began biting his left nipple until it began to bleed. Sweat began to form on his forehead, almost running down between his eyes, making him blink nervously.

“I’m gonna kill you asshole, and you’re not going to be able to do anything about it. Maybe I‘ll fuck you in the ass, like I was fucked in my virgin ass. Would you like that?!”

I slid off him and moved over to the pile of stuff on the floor that I had brought in from the shed. I picked up a thick wooden dowel rod , and thought of ways that I could torture my officer.

“Have you ever been beaten the way you beat the people you arrest?” I asked standing firmly in front of him holding the tool in my hand.

“Answer me!! Nod you head for yes, shake for no!! Have you ever been beaten?”

He shook his head back from side to side. “Good then. This will be a new experience for you. Get a little back of what you’ve been giving.”

I drew back and swung the dowel across his thick thighs. He grunted and howled as blow after blow landed, leaving dark red bruising welts on his body. Grinning, I repeatedly struck him in different areas, changing the angle of impact with each stroke.

“Nice body, pig,” I shouted. “I’m gonna make you look as rough as the bums on the street that you beat up and bully around.” He closed his eyes each time the wooden dowel slashed loudly against my officer’s body. Waves of pleasure washed over my body. I loved the idea of being able to do to him what he has done to countless others. I fed on the horror and terror in his eyes.

I watched as he desperately tried to move out of the way of the tool being swung at his exposed body. There was nowhere for him to go and all he managed to do was make me want to hit him even more.

“You fucking piece of shit!” I shouted between blows. “You’re a worthless piece of trash that needs to be thrown away!”

When I began to grow tried, I paused for a moment and walked over to my beaten prey. He was breathing fast, but his eyes stayed focused on following me as I circled around the bed.

“Do you want some more, motherfucker? What do you think? Do you like being beaten? You can take it, you scumbag, you‘re a big tough man.”

I swung back as far as I could and with all my strength came down across his knees. He yelped out loud as his eyes went wide and looked towards the ceiling. “You stupid fucking bastard!!” I shouted then struck him against the heels of his feet repeatedly, until blood began to drip to the floor. From there I worked my way back up his body taking my time in hitting all exposed areas.

I climbed back on his chest and ripped the tape from his mouth. “Please let me go. I have a wife and family. You don’t want to do this. Do you know they will kill you if you kill me? Please think about what you’re d....”

Before he could say another word, I slapped him harshly across the face twice. “First rule motherfucker,” I said slapping him again. “ I’m the one now in charge, not you. You only speak when you have my permission to speak. Do you fucking understand?” I said slapping him again and twisting one of his nipples in my hand. I leaned down towards his face, “Got it pig?”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Good boy. You’re a fast learner. Now maybe you’ll live a little longer if you do as you are told. I want a taste of that meat you’ve got between your legs, and if you don’t get nice and hard for me... Well...let’s just say you are not going to like what comes next.”

I slowly worked my way down towards his semi-hard cock and slowly took it into my mouth. With one hand I spread his ass cheeks and slid one finger into his tight ass, as he let out a loud moan. Instantly his cock stood tall and firm. I lightly brushed my lips across the head of his cock and licked away a small amount of pre-cum. I was about to violate him in ways that made my own pussy wet. I removed my pants and underwear and climbed back onto the bed.

“You’re gonna eat my pussy before I fuck that cock of yours. And remember if I don’t get off you are going to feel a lot more pain.”

I sat down on his face blocking off his airway, making him work his face from side to side just to get some air. I picked up one of my tools again and began hitting him in the chest until he began sucking on my clit, which temporarily removed the beast from within me.

“That’s it scumbag, piece of shit, lick my cunt good.” I could feel his tongue prying apart my pussy lips and licking at my juices. “Ahhh yes, that’s very nice.” I said as I reached down and began stroking his cock gently in my hands.

I had done some sick shit before, but this was problem on the worst things I could have done. I knew if I were to ever get caught, his buddies were going to beat the hell out of me, still at that moment I was thoroughly enjoying the power I had over him.

He lapped slowly up and down against my labia and teased my cunthole before returning to sucking on my clit. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my cunt as he continued licking and lapping at my hole. Sticking his tongue in and out of my wet hole. I began getting wetter and wetter as he began drinking my juices. Even when he began biting my clit, I didn’t want him to stop. The pain felt good.

I looked down at his thick cock that was fully hard and glistening with cum. “Don’t stop tell I cum all over your face. I’m almost there.” I whispered to him. “I’m almost ready to fuck you.” His face pushed harder up into my cunt as he worked my cunt over, grinding his teeth into my clit. Without warning his teeth clamped down on my clit. I couldn’t believe the feelings that flowed through me, I began cumming like I had never cum before. As I pulled away from him I could see blood on his face from the clit.

“Its fucking time, you piece of trash,” I told him. “That cock better work as good as your tongue.”


*************************

If you wish to read part two of this story, please visit my other site...

http://mspsycho.wordpress.com/

McDeath

McDEATH
I went to McDonald's today, armed with an assault rifle and intending to kill 30 or 40 people. You didn't see me, because I look just like you.Why didn't I do it? Why didn't I explode through that room in a frenzy of McDeath, pop-pop-popping moms and dads and hot cherry pies?

Not because the man at the gun store sold me a clip that would hold only nine bullets. Reloading after nine people is as easy as after 30. For a person in my state of mind, who's really counting anyhow?And not because I caught a sudden glimpse of humanity, seeing all the mommies having lunch with their little darlings. Huh-uh. Not a chance.

I'll tell you why I turned around and went home, the rifle still wrapped in plastic bags in my trunk. I really will. In just a bit.First, let me take a minute to explain myself.

Let me tell who I am, and what it took to turn from an

Ordinary Person into a monster willing -- wanting even -- to kill other Ordinary Person.

Lots of 'em.

All the berserk killers who went wild one day, the postal workers, the unemployed laborers, the Viet Nam vets, the courtroom murderers, the restaurant homicidal maniacs -- were just Ordinary People one day.

Then they -- like me -- turned into

Something Else.

There was a time, you know, when we really were ordinary.

We picked up the newspaper, saw a horrible story about a mass shooting and shook our heads. But that was before.

Since then, look at all that has happened:

We've been put down, shouted down, jilted, deprived, ratted on, denied and set aside. The money's gone. The dog's gone. There is no happiness left.We just want to do away with ourselves.

So we stare at the bottom of an empty mug, and ponder life, and fate, and our own humanity. And we find that we have achieved nothing of note, no immortality, no deeds worthy even of the granite slab that will cover our last remains.

Whimpering, sniveling, we determine to go out with a bang.

For 15 minutes, we will be

Very Important.

In the time it takes to empty two or three clips, we will have impacted more people than we ever did in our entire miserable lives. Grown men will fear us, women will faint, and neighbors will give interviews to TV cameras.

We are cleansed of our weakness.

And for a little time, police radios and sirens and red lights will look just like on TV.

So I went to McDonald's today, armed with an assault rifle, wanting to kill people. I saw you there. Yes you, who now sit there smugly in front of your computer and don't care about me.

I opened the trunk, pulled back the plastic, and looked at the cold black steel

and hollow-pointed death.

From the pit of my stomach I wanted to kill everyone I could,

all those grandma types with the blue hair and the wretched kids who whined because they didn't get the right toy in their Happy Meal.

I looked around, and no one cared. This had all been so easy.

If they cared, I probably could not have purchased this gun, these bullets.

We had grown accustomed to mass shootings, I saw.

It was accepted, acceptable, a small price to pay for a freedom.

I knew already what would happen if I went through with it.

Somewhere in California a third-page story would cite a statistic, and in

Texas a commentator would be angry,

and in Florida it wouldn't even make the news.

And so even pop-pop-popping at McDonald's didn't matter anymore.

I guess, for the time being, I did something people did care about. I went home.

I cared -- momentarily.

But, even while you read this, sipping your drink and peering casually at this screen, somebody else is out there buying a gun -- and planning on taking you with them when they go.

Chicken Pen

This is fiction...or is it?



Everyone in the house had gotten up early that morning and left for school or work. I had woke up feeling sick, but more than anything I was having severe cramps from just starting my 2nd period ever. At the last minute I convinced Mom to let me stay home from school, by saying I was having bad diarrhea. It worked because she saw me go the bathroom 4 or 5 times, she thought I was using the toilet, but I was adjusting the tampon that seemed to be making me sick to my stomach. My father had already left for work an hour earlier and wasn't to be back home until after 6pm on that day, so I would have the house to myself until at least 4pm when Mom, my brothers and sisters would all get home.


I laid down in bed and covered my head as I listened to sounds of family driving away. Once I was sure they were far enough away, I quickly got up and fixed myself a bowl of cereal and took 2 ibuprofen for the pain in my stomach. It wasn't long before I was feeling well enough to play the music on the stereo loud enough that if someone had lived within a mile of us that could have heard it bumping with a thunderous bass sound. I dance about crazy and wild, doing moves that I would never consider doing in front of someone.


I continued dancing until the water I had placed on the stove to heat up was ready. We didn't have a shower or any hot water, so the best way for me to get cleaned up was by heating a large boiling pot on the stove in the kitchen, then carry it to the bathroom and dump it into a larger container that sat in the bottom of the tub. I would then add cold water from the well that had natural spring water flowing into it at all times, to bring it to a temperature that was comfortable.


I stripped naked, stepped into the tub and began pouring water over my head from yet another pan. I tried to let as much water as possible drain back into the large bucket sitting in the tub, so that I would have enough to wash and rinse my hair and then wash the rest of my body. It usually took all the water and sometimes a little extra cold water from the faucet to feel completely clean.


After I finished cleaning up, I got dressed and then headed outside with my book Little House on the Prairie. I had a favorite spot where I liked to read, where no one knew I was there. It was on top of the chicken pen on the south side of the house. One day I had gotten mad at everyone and decided to 'disappear', and that was the place I had chosen to hide.


On top I could see everyone around me, without them seeing me. I spent time there watching Mom hang clothes on the clothesline, my father feeding the chickens and gathering eggs, I watched my brothers using their knives to cut down small branches to make into swords, I saw my sister playing with her dolls near a small garden. I could watch the world from there, and I loved how that made me feel.


There was a tree behind the chicken pen that made it easy for me to crawl up on top, so I found myself spending a lot of my time there alone reading and watching others. I brought an old blanket and my pillow so I could lay down and get very comfortable for a couple of hours. I only had a few chapters left in the book, so I hoped I could complete it before anyone got back.
It was still before noon when I finished the book, but I decided to stay on top of the chicken house a little long and soak up sun. I had almost falling asleep when I heard someone coming down the driveway. My first thought was that it was some stranger who had lost his way. As I listened to the vehicle coming closer I began to entertain even crazier thoughts of it being a murderer looking for his next target. Whoever it was, I didn't want to take a chance of being found home alone, so I stayed hid on top of the chicken pen and watched until whoever was coming down the road came into view.


My heart raced wildly when I saw it was my father in his truck. Fear over took me, and I began thinking about ways to escape in case he saw me. I didn't want to spend time alone with him. I was frighten to death of him. I never knew what he would try to do to me or what kind of weird off the wall kind of things he would try to make me do when no one was around.


The thoughts made my heart beat so fast from the adrenaline rush, that I thought it was going to explode. I was taking in deep breaths as if someone was choking me. After a couple more deep breathes I got up enough nerve to look over the top of the pen again and see what my father was doing. I watched as he began getting something out of the passengers seat that was wrapped up with a old blanket that had been in the back of his truck for weeks. I kept my eyes peeled on what he was doing, but keeping myself laying down as flat as possible so he couldn't possible spot me.


Fear rushed throughout my body when I saw him carrying what he had towards my direction. I ducked completely down and just listened to sounds of him coming closer. I heard him walk through the door opening into the chicken pen, and then I heard the sound of him opening the door to the inner part of the pen. It was the area just below where I was laying, the area where my father had many times brought deer that he had illegally killed out of season, or just a extra untagged one during the season.


I once had to hold the flashlight for my father as he hoisted a deer by the hide legs up into the air with a rope. He then took out a very sharp, large hunting knife and split the deer open from between its legs. All the while he would direct me where to point the light, and tell me to make sure I kept my mouth shut so that he didn't get into any kind of trouble with the law.


It wasn't deer season, but that was my first thought when I heard the sounds of him hoisting something up into the air using the rope that always hung over a set of steel rods that my father had put up in between two 4X8 beams. It was solid enough that you could swing back and forth on the ropes. But most of the time you couldn't stand being in the room for very long because it was always so hot inside. In the room there was only one very small window that was barely big enough to stick your head out of it. Not even big enough to escape out of if the need ever came.


After several minutes I became curious enough to look through one of the several small nail holes that were all over the top of the pen. I could see my father with his penis out of this pants, stroking it as he stood there staring in one direction. I quietly moved over to another nail hole and look down. My eyes felt like they were going to pop out of my head when I looked down and saw a young girl with brown hair and blood coming out of her mouth, hanging like a deer by her wrist high in the air. She looked like she had been beaten severely, until she became unconscious. I could hear small moans, but no words that I could understand. I watched with my eyes wide, not really believing what I was seeing, but scared to move in fear of getting caught and being the one hanging there.


My father moved into the picture and I could see and hear him slapping her hard across various parts of her body. He bit her hard on her nipples until both of them were bleeding. When he began having sex with her I turned away, no longer able to look at her suffering. I felt so sorry for her, but I was so scared and I knew there was nothing except for killing him that I could do to save her.


Since we lived so far out in the country we didn't have a phone. There were no lines that ran out that far, so if we wanted one, the phone company told Mom that they would have to pay to put up the lines, which cost several hundred dollars. Of course we never managed to save up that much money, so calling for someone to come rescue her was out of the question.


When I looked down again he was anal raping her with part of a old shovel handle. I could hear her crying out as he shoved it up her repeatedly. It was then that her eyes opened and we made eye contact. Our eyes wide, staring at each other, she began begging for my father to stop what he was doing. She looked directly at me, and screamed, "please help me, don't let him kill me!"

My father stopped what he was doing and looked up. I rolled over and away from the hole, looking for a possible escape, but making a lot of noise on the tin roof as I did. There was no where for me to go to get away quick enough without him spotting me, still I tried. I made it half way down the side of the tree when I felt him grabbing me by the legs. He pulled me hard and I tumbled down and hit the ground with a hard thump. He held the gun down near my face and asked me what the hell I was doing home. I got to barely explain before he grabbed me by the back of my hair and pulled in towards the door of the chicken pen.


"I promise I won't say anything! Please don't kill me!" I screamed from the bottom of my soul.

"Shut the fuck up and do as I fucking say!" he screamed at me as he jerked my head around.

He pulled me inside to the area where the strange girl hung silently in the air. Blood was draining down her legs from where the shovel handle was still stuck up inside of her.

"So you want to watch? Huh? Well watch this."

He then shoved the handle of the shovel all the way up inside of her, and she let out a loud scream that terrified me so much that I started shaking uncontrollably.

"Please just let her go." I begged. "Don't hurt her anymore. Stop making her suffer."

"Suffer?! Who cares if this whore suffers. She's just a piece of trash. Why don't you just put a end to her suffering? You're a part of this now. You know all about it. End it for her."

My father then grabbed his gun from the corner and put it in my hands.

"Just pull the goddamn trigger! Do you want to be the one laying there?"

I felt cold, distant. I couldn't take my eyes off of her eyes and the tip of the shotgun that was pressed hard between her two amber colored eyes. She looked at me and moaned deeply, begging for life without the use of words. I wanted to look away, walk away, run far to the ends of the earth and just jump off.

My father shouted at me with a voice that was more terrifying than dieing. "You better do it. If not I'm going to do to you, all the things I did to her. Do you fucking understand me? Now pull the goddamn trigger!"

He was holding the gun in my hands so tight that they had become numb, almost frozen in place. For a brief moment my heart stop beating. I didn't breathe. There was no sounds. Then it was all over. Blood poured from the wound, and gagging, bubbling sounds escaped from her mouth. Her eyes stared wide, directly looking into my eyes, looking for some type of hope. Some last chance. She grasp for one last breath of air and then her eyes lowered. I turned and vomited hard, falling down to my knees as I did.

My father untied her hands and let her drop to the floor as I stood there in shock. He wrapped her up in the blanket that he had carried her into the chicken pen with, and then through her over his shoulder. He picked up his 20 gauge and walked back to his truck and through her into the back. I recovered enough that I managed to get to my feet and walk outside. I met him half way between the chicken pen and his truck when he again grabbed me by my hair.

"You better keep this to yourself! If you tell anyone, anyone!! I'll make sure you spend the rest of your life locked up somewhere. I'll let them know you were the one who killed her, and you'll spend the rest of your life in jail getting fucked in the ass by some guards. Do you hear me Tayla? Keep you fucking mouth shut! Now as far as anyone knows I wasn't here today, so you better not tell anyone I was even home. Do you understand me?" He then yanked on my hair hard until I agreed.

Fear of my fathers rage, I did as I was ordered.

What a dumbass.

Again people have been reading my blog and then telling me how I need to get help…well here’s the thing…I’ve tried so many times and failed that each time I try and fail, it again makes me feel like I am a failure. So fuck 'getting help' ....this is the way I am learning to heal. By finally admitting to things that I am usually too embarrassed to tell to a persons face. This is my therapy. I am slowly beginning to heal.

For the third time I tried to see a therapist and a psychiatrist only to be turned away because of a misunderstanding. I had spoke with a intake counselor from ParkSide in Tulsa and had appointments set up for drug treatment from 9am till noon, 3 days a week, and 2 appointments to see a therapist and then the psychiatrist. I was actually looking forward to finally being able to unload my mind on someone who could help me figure it all out, but again I guess it just wasn’t meant to happen.

I found out I couldn’t attend the morning classes just yet, mainly due to the fact that I didn’t have a way to get there at that time, so I thought I would just postpone it for a few more months and then go. The day of the appointment the therapist called and I explained that I couldn’t attend the morning classes but still felt like I needed to see the therapist to talk about a few things and the psychiatrist to maybe get on some medications. The therapist misunderstood (or so she says) and canceled all the appointments. And she didn’t tell me anything about it until the day of the appointment when I received a letter in the mail saying my appointments were canceled. I called her back and said I had full intentions of coming to the other appointments, but she said it was then to late, so she would have to call me back and make new appointments.
That was 2 weeks ago and I haven’t heard anything back yet!

If someone you knew openly admitted to hearing voices and had recently injured themselves, wouldn’t you as a professional person want to help this person? I guess she really doesn’t give a fuck. So when and if I go on a killing spree will she then say, ‘well I guess I should have tried to help her’? WTF???

And how in the fuck does calling someone a dumbass help in their healing? You’re only making them feel worse about the crazy things they do, you’re not helping any. Here is the mind….they said I’m a dumbass…I guess they are right I am a dumbass and I don’t deserve this life. I’m only going to fuck it up worse. I can’t do anything right. Dumbass!!!!dumbass!!dumbass!!!dumbass!!! You hear the words as you try to sleep…Dumbass!!! And that’s who you will always be. Never able to change. What a dumbass.

Life Blows

Depression…

I feel like I’m pushing an elephant up the stairs.

At the tender age of 12 I began praying to God to let me die.

I remember vividly how comforting the idea of dying was: I could go to sleep one night and just never wake up. I had no way of knowing that in order to escape by death, it would likely be necessary for me to have an active hand in my demise. I wanted to die, yet I had no real concept of suicide. All I knew was that I was hurting, big time, and that I would continue in agony until death intervened. My younger sister was only 8 years old that summer. We spent our time at the barn discussing what had happened to Dustin. To pass time we wrestled heavy bales of hay from huge stacks and place them in a way to form a small enclosed space that we could walk into. It was a place to hide, and at times be alone with your own thoughts.

I recalled how I was told by others that in a time of need all I had to do was call out to God and He would provide for me. One day, I felt I couldn’t take the way I was feeling anymore and cried out to God, “Okay, God, this is it…this is my time of need. Please help me to live with the way I feel. “Can you see me God? If you can see me, please help!” I shouted. “Whatever it takes, do it now.” “I don’t want to live anymore. If you can’t help me, please then just let me die.”
Inability to experience joy.

I rarely cried anymore. I didn’t have to. I was barely functional, plagued by waves of fear, an overwhelming sense of impending doom. I welcome death by other means...be it accident or illness. I often wished I would get a terminal illness so that I would not have to deal with either life or death.

Psychopaths wear the mask of sanity

Some people believe there is a biological predisposition or faulty [brain] wiring, and others suggest that serial killers fail to bond during early childhood," Levin explains.

Levin says that most of them have suffered as children. "They are often physically or verbally abused, abandoned, adopted under terrible circumstances or violated by a parent and grow up with profound feelings of powerlessness," he says.

"From what I have seen, most serial killers don't begin their killing spree until their late 20s, 30s or 40, and that gives us a clue," Levin says. "It's not just childhood that creates these monsters, as most people who suffer as children grow up and become upstanding citizens. But for some reason, serial killers don't age gracefully."